


Whispers in the Dark

by The_Lady_of_Shalott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Explosive Female Orgasm, F/M, Night Sex, PWP, Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, Whore Irene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3765739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Shalott/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Shalott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He only comes to her at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Cities of the West](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2767685) by [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration). 



> It wouldn't surprise me if this happened at some stage in ponderinfrustration's glorious Buckaroo Fringe series.

It’s late when he comes to her – it always is. He doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want the ordinary people to notice that he has such a base urge as this. She’s waiting for him in her night dress, oil lamp turned down low. They don’t need much light for this. She prefers the half-darkness for him anyway.

He has his own key. It scrapes slightly as it turns in the lock and the door opens enough for him to slip in. The broad-brimmed hat tugged down over his curls hides his face, but it won’t for long.

She reaches up and takes it off, hanging it on the back of the door and he presses his lips to hers, tongue soft, gentle as it slides into her mouth. He’s always been gentle with her.

He’s wearing a three-piece suit – she feels the finely-woven fabric under her fingers as she slips off his heavy coat, letting it pool around their feet. Her hands move on, sliding under his jacket and up around his broad shoulders, easing it off before drifting down and undoing the buttons of his embroidered waistcoat.

He’s half-hard already, rutting against her thigh, his own hands growing restless so that they wander under her night dress, one long, violinist finger seeking out her clitoris, stroking, flicking, teasing so that she tingles and gets wetter.

He breaks the kiss at last, breath hot on her neck. The waistcoat falls off at last, followed by the shirt, the belt pulled open as he suckles the crease where her neck becomes her collarbone. She presses her right hand to the middle of his bare back, warm to her touch, her left hand slipping under the waistband of his trousers into his underwear, seeking out his prick, fingers light and teasing.

The angle is a little awkward, but she strokes gently at his balls, squeezing them, the skin so soft and delicate. His prick lengthens, hardening further, straining against its confines. He groans against her throat, backing her onto the bed. And now, at last, she opens his trousers, sliding them down along with his underwear as far as his ankles. He stops his murmurations long enough to pull them off fully, along with his shoes and she dispenses with the night dress.

They fall on each other again, one of his hands working the curly dark hair at her crotch while the other massages her left breast, his prick standing out, thick and full, a droplet of pre-come at the tip. She bites his neck and slowly, so slowly, he eases a finger into her, then out, and then in again. Taking his time. She gasps into his throat and he whimpers as she flicks the head of his prick.

“Christ.”

She’s not sure which of them groans it. Possibly both.

His finger leaves, for good this time, and he replaces it with his hard prick, careful and slow as he slides it into her, head moving to suck her nipple and her hands pulling him in closer, closer, pushing the base of is back so that he moves in deeper, filling the ache inside. He grips her hips tight, fingers digging in so that surely she’ll have bruises by morning. He thrusts and thrusts, hips rolling, breath hot and damp.

It doesn’t take long, they’re so wound already. Her nails scratch his back, the tension so tight in her belly that she shakes under him. He groans as he pulses inside her and bites down on her nipple, torso collapsing against her. Her vision whites out, for a moment, a long moment that stretches into an eternity and she can’t breathe, her lungs won’t fill. She’s sure she’ll combust. (No wonder they call it the little death.) Waves rush through her, achingly beautiful and he feels so wonderful breathing against her. All at once her vision rushes back and her breath and she gasps into the darkness of the room, his chest still heaving against her.

He presses soft kisses to her neck as he slides himself out, moving his lips up along her jaw to her lips.

They don’t speak. They never speak. He curls around her, wrapping both of them in the bed covers as he holds her close, each slipping into sleep.

When she wakes, in the morning, he’s already gone. But she doesn’t mind. This is what they have and it’s enough.


End file.
